


the hundred shivers

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Milady rides into the Garrison with disturbing news.</p>
<p>Later, the musketeers return home to eat, drink, argue, and pick broken glass out of Aramis' hair.</p>
<p>(Missing scene and tag for 2.06 'Through a Glass Darkly')</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hundred shivers

He glared a hole through her, not quite trusting himself to speak, so it was Treville who responded.

‘What do you mean, a trap?’

Anne tossed her head impatiently. ‘The so-called astronomer is some sort of fanatic. He is holding the king captive.’

Treville paused in the act of buckling his weapons on to frown. ‘And the others?’

‘The whole court. Queen, mewling baby, all the lords and ladies. It’s quite the party,’ she sneered. 

‘The guard was overcome?’ 

‘Taken prisoner, or dead.’ She looked at Athos then, and he met her eye against his better judgement. ‘They killed your friend. Aramis.’

She said it flatly, reporting like a soldier. He might have suspected her of making it up out of cruelty, but there was no edge to her voice. 

‘Killed him how?’ he demanded tersely. His skin felt too tight across his face.

‘Pushed him from a third floor window, actually, but it’s hardly relevant.’ She’d turned away, looking back to Treville, but his hand shot out to grip her arm. 

‘You saw - his body?’

If he hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken the split-second look on her face for sympathy. ‘I didn’t need to. Nobody could survive a fall like that.’

Athos released her, stepping smartly back. He could feel Treville watching him and avoided looking up. 

‘I’m sure there’s no hurry,’ Anne bit out, spreading her hands sarcastically. 

Athos strode into the next room, retrieving his sword where it was leaning against the wall. He gripped it hard enough to see his knuckles turn white. For some minutes, he stared down at them, until he heard Treville calling him from the next room.

He re-entered without looking at Anne, pointing at her with one steady, accusatory hand. ‘She is a liar, and a cheat,’ he growled. ‘Why should we trust her?’

\---

 

Everyone was in such high spirits on the ride back that even Athos found it difficult to remain immune. Porthos and Aramis were teasing d’Artagnan mercilessly about his romantic display, which he was pretending to be annoyed about while his face was lit up from the inside with joy. Constance kept shooting glances back at him from where she was sitting primly upright and beaming in the carriage next to the Dauphin’s nurse, who seemed, by contrast, to be still suffering the aftershocks of the day’s events. Athos felt some sympathy for her. With Anne at his side; her motives still frustratingly unclear, he couldn’t concentrate. The most unsettling thing was how easily – how effectively – they worked together. How much – despite himself – he enjoyed her humour, her pragmatism, her furious energy.

It was easier to think once they were on the way back to the Garrison, having returned their charges to the palace. Porthos and Aramis seemed to have run out of inspiration for their improvised romantic ballad featuring d’Artagnan and Constance, but the man in question was still smiling dreamily. In fact, Porthos and Aramis had both fallen rather conspicuously quiet.

‘How’s your shoulder?’ he asked, speeding up to pull alongside them. 

Porthos pulled a face and nodded. Aramis frowned. ‘What’s this?’

‘Wrenched it getting out of the chains. Rochefort set it. S’fine.’

‘Rochefort?’ Aramis repeated disgustedly. He was looking pale. He’d been pretty cheerful when they found him, no doubt due in part to the proximity of the queen, but there was a fair amount of blood on his face, neck and hands that could only be his own. 

‘I was stuck in the basement with him for an hour,’ Porthos grumbled. ‘Would’ve cut my arm off to get out by that point.’

‘We’re thankful it did not come to that,’ Athos acknowledged quietly. 

In the yard, Aramis dismounted and swayed on his feet. Athos had expected something like this, and stepped close to steady him with a hand on his back. The last of the sun glinted on something in his tangled hair. Athos reached up gingerly to pick out the shard of glass. He held it up to show Aramis the blood smeared along its edge. 

‘You really did jump out of a window, then?’

Aramis groaned, rolling his shoulders. ‘Hmm. Not deliberately.’

‘Meant it when I told you not to do it again,’ Porthos rumbled, appearing beside them. 

‘I’ll try to remember,’ said Aramis, raising an eyebrow at them. Porthos gave him a sceptical look and fished another shard of glass out the back of his collar. 

‘You’re carrying half the window around with you for a souvenir,’ he muttered darkly. 

Athos passed their horses off to a stable boy. The yard was emptying out as the sun set, musketeers heading off for the evening. He caught Treville’s eye and nodded in salute. 

‘I’m starving,’ Aramis said suddenly. ‘Let’s go to the tavern.’

‘No.’ Porthos’ tone brooked no argument. ‘D’Artagnan will bring food up to your rooms while Athos ‘n me pick out the rest of your souvenirs.’ D’Artagnan, hovering, nodded quickly and made for the kitchens to seek out Serge. 

‘M’fine,’ Aramis objected automatically. It was less than convincing. With the adrenaline of the rescue wearing off, he was moving cautiously and the blood on his face stood out starkly against his pale skin. 

‘Sure you are.’ Porthos herded him toward the barracks.

‘Indulge us,’ said Athos. ‘Reports of your death may have been exaggerated, but they were… disconcerting.’

Aramis offered him a hazy half-smile. ‘I landed on an awning. No harm done.’

‘You have the luck of the devil,’ Athos mused, flanking him. 

‘You’ve got blood in your hair,’ Porthos told him flatly, less willing to humour him for a change. ‘And you’re not walking straight,’ he added, putting a hand to Aramis’ upper arm as he wavered. 

When Aramis took his jacket off, Porthos snatched it off him and shook it vigorously, dislodging a small cascade of tiny shards of glass. Athos took their wayward comrade by the shoulders and directed him to a chair. ‘Sit.’

Aramis heaved a put-upon sigh, but obeyed. There was a cut on the back of his neck that was still bleeding sluggishly, and blood glinting in his hair. His hands were covered in scrapes, and one palm had a nasty cut in it. 

‘I want to look at your shoulder,’ Aramis muttered obstinately, looking at Porthos. ‘Don’t trust Rochefort.’ 

‘You sit still,’ Porthos snapped. He was ransacking Aramis’ cupboard in search of his medical supplies. Athos squeezed Aramis’ shoulder in silent commiseration. Porthos in a protective rage was formidable. 

Athos dug out a few candles and brought them over to the table. The light was failing, and some of the cuts looked like they did still have glass in them. ‘None of these look too bad,’ he said quietly.

‘I told you,’ Aramis replied, quick as a flash. 

‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

Denial seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but under both of their fierce glares he relented. ‘Leg, maybe,’ he mumbled. 

Porthos crouched in front of him. ‘Which?’

Aramis twisted to peer at the back of his own thigh. There was a considerable gash there, no doubt caused by more glass. ‘Hmph. “Maybe.”’ Porthos grumbled at him. He handed the bundle he was holding up to Athos – it was the canvas roll that Aramis kept his needle and thread in. Inside, he found that there was a pair of tweezers as well. 

Porthos stomped off in search of wine. Aramis looked after him, eyebrows drawing together in concern.

‘He’ll cool off soon,’ said Athos. ‘You had him worried.’

He brought the candle as close as he could without singeing either of them and bent to scrutinise Aramis’ hair for more glass fragments. In the candlelight they glinted against the blood in his hair. 

‘Christ. You’re a mess,’ Athos said under his breath. 

‘A mess without a broken neck, though, so I believe I am doing rather well,’ Aramis joked weakly. 

Athos lowered his voice. ‘Oh really? You’re also nine kinds of idiot. Did you think you were being subtle?’ 

Aramis winced. ‘I absolutely definitely don’t know what you mean,’ he said, though he sounded at least vaguely apologetic. ‘Also, I didn’t do anything today.’

‘Today?’ hissed Athos, and was mercifully cut off by Porthos returning, this time with d’Artagnan in tow. Between them, they were juggling two bottles of wine, a loaf of bread and a crock of Serge’s beef stew. Serge’s cooking was serviceable at best, but somehow it smelled exceptional, and Athos realised that he hadn’t eaten all day. He eyed the wine mournfully, though. 

‘That won’t go far,’ he observed. 

Aramis looked up, as far as he could with Athos gripping the back of his neck. ‘There’s a bottle of spirits at the back of the cupboard. Use that for the cuts; we can drink the wine.’

D’Artagnan put down his various burdens on the table and went to fetch it. ‘You’ve looked better,’ he said cheerily to Aramis, and got a sarcastic smile in return.

‘What took you so long, d’Artagnan?’ said Porthos. ‘Finishing your sonnet for Constance?’ 

‘Ha bloody ha.’ D’Artagnan was rattling around for cups amidst the clutter of food and bandages on the table.

Athos felt Aramis relax at the return of Porthos’ good humour and took the opportunity to seize one of the larger glass fragments. Aramis hissed sharply, but he thought more in surprise than pain. Porthos crouched at his side. 

‘Let me see your leg.’ He tugged out another chair and propped Aramis’ boot on it so he could get at the wound. Aramis hissed out a long breath when the alcohol made contact. 

‘Is there still glass in that one?’ Athos put the tweezers down and ran a hand carefully over Aramis’ scalp to check that he’d got them all. Porthos grunted what seemed to be an affirmative, taking up the tweezers, and gestured for Athos to bring the candle closer. 

It was a long, painstaking process. To his credit, Aramis kept fairly quiet through most of it, with the exception of a burst of colourful swearing when Athos dumped a liberal slug of the strong alcohol onto the top of his head. D’Artagnan passed him a glass of wine without comment. 

They eventually had to get his breeches off and lie him down on the bed to put a line of stitches in the back of his leg. The wound was not serious, exactly, but it gaped when he moved and seemed reluctant to stop bleeding completely. When it was closed and bandaged, Athos leaned back. 

‘You should sleep.’ 

Aramis rolled over. ‘Forget it. We saved the king’s life today. We’re celebrating.’ Porthos hovered close by as he got to his feet and returned to the table. Athos sighed and followed them. There was still two-thirds of a bottle of wine to be drunk, after all, and if it came to it he could fetch more from his own quarters. 

‘Now then, d’Artagnan.’ Aramis shifted, leaning forward across the table with a glint of mischief in his eye. ‘What rhymes with “Constance”?’


End file.
